


maps

by glim, Poe



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Academia, Coffee Shops, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Maps, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 19:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15154412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: Recognition isn't instantaneous; a few seconds pass before Steve realizes who he's looking at. The surprise he feels, however, comes not from finding himself face to face with the Winter Soldier, but from discovering that the face he meets isn't one he expected the Winter Soldier to have.





	1. art // L'esprit de l'escalier

**Author's Note:**

> This work was created for the Captain America Reverse Bang 2018 with art & playist by Transbucky (Poe) and words by Glim. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta reader, kivrin. 
> 
> Thank you to the mods of the CapRBB for all your hard work! 
> 
> And most of all, thank you to Transbucky for all their lovely artwork and their patience. <3

  
  
_L'esprit de l'escalier_ ~ by transbucky  



	2. maps //

  
  


* * *

Steve smells the smoke before he sees it, dry and acrid against the back of his throat as he walks toward the art school. Three blocks away from campus he can feel a tightness in his chest, anxiety and smoke crowding his lungs. There's a tickle there, almost a cough, that he pushes aside as dread creeps up the back of his throat, too. 

No. He thinks of the art school first, then with an even faster-growing dread, no no no, when he sees a few crumpled figures at the edge of the campus. This close, Steve can taste desperation and fear in the air, and he pushes past the growing crowd outside campus to try and do something, anything. 

Before he can get any closer, a hand grips his shoulder and tries to pull him away, pulls him harder when Steve struggles. 

"It's not even a police scene yet," Steve says, gasping, because the smoke is trying to choke the breath from his lungs, but that's his campus. He works there, he went to college there, the knows each walkway and each building better than he knows his own home. 

"Yeah, that's right, punk." The hand gives his shoulder a quick, firm shake, somehow without hurting him, and the man starts to walk Steve back from the smoke and ash and debris that cloud the air. "Avengers business. You can watch it on the news." 

Steve tries to swallow back another cough, then, out of frustration, lets himself cough a few times against his other shoulder. "You have to let me do something. I can tell that smoke's not from a fire." 

"Going home, where it's safe, is doing something." The man lets his hand drop from Steve's shoulder and touches Steve's arm, surprisingly gentle, and that's when Steve looks up at him. 

Recognition isn't instantaneous; a few seconds pass before Steve realizes who he's looking at. The surprise he feels, however, comes not from finding himself face to face with the Winter Soldier, but from discovering that the face he meets isn't one he expected the Winter Soldier to have. 

Everyone who lives in New York, everyone who paid any attention to the news a couple years ago when Iron Man walked into a HYDRA base and walked out with the world's longest serving POW has some idea who the Winter Soldier is. But no news clip, no internet article, no newspaper photograph ever shows him like this: 

A small, set frown at the corners of his mouth, worry in the light ice-blue of his eyes, concern edging the urgency of all his words and movements. His hair tied back off his face, and the few strands pulled loose by the wind soften his features for a moment when he looks at Steve. 

"All of Auburndale's buildings are connected. If one's in trouble, they all are." Steve reaches into his bag and pulls out a sketch pad and pen. "Look, if I draw you a map..." 

"A map?" The Soldier frowns, then turns away from Steve to talk into his comm. He's dressed in the all black tactical gear that Steve does recognize from the photographs. "Wilson. I got a student here--"

"--I teach here," Steve mutters, already halfway done with a rough sketch of the campus. 

"Okay, a professor--" 

"--adjunct professor," Steve corrects under his breath, because god does his paycheck show it. 

The Soldier sighs. "I got a guy here who's going to map out the system of building connections for me. I'm going in after that. No, _I'll_ run point." Another sigh at whatever the person he's talking to says, and then he reaches for the paper from Steve. 

Who signs it fast and messy before handing it over. "If you start here..." He points to one building, leaning in close enough to see the way the Soldier's jaw tightens. "Are you hurt?" 

The man shakes his head, but there's something in the way he moves, careful, tight, and controlled that doesn't seem right. He indicates one of the smaller buildings on campus with a gloved hand and then glances at Steve. "The first explosion hit before we were ready. You know the fastest way through campus?" 

"I did my undergrad here, of course I do." Steve draws a few quick arrowed lines across the paper, then offers it to the Soldier. "Take this--" 

"I'm good. I'll remember." He glances at the paper once more and nods at the signature. "Thanks, Steven." 

"You're welcome--" 

"Barnes." Barnes offers his right hand to shake Steve's and the careful, controlled tension tightens around his jaw again. Before Steve can say anything, he drops his hand, but ends up taking the map despite his earlier refusal. 

Steve watches the smoke and dust cloud the air for ten minutes after Barnes disappears into the campus. He stays until the smoke makes his lungs itch, until his throat feels dry and sore, and even then he knows that there's no distance far enough, that even a walk across the city wouldn't be long enough to clear the worry lodged there, too. 

That night, he stays awake as long as he can watching the news, hoping for some small glimpse of the man he talked to that afternoon. Wilson, the man Barnes talked to on his comm unit, speaks with the reporters on the scene and manages quiet, easy charm and reassurance without revealing what really happened. Barnes, however, remains unseen, and Steve tries to convince himself that he's one of the blurred figures in the background, barely visible but safe. Steve falls asleep on the sofa, his body tense with worry, and wakes up to the series of campus emergency notifications on his phone and the same clips as last night on the morning news.

*

"They won't let you back onto campus for a few days."

For the second time that week, Steve finds himself standing on the edge of Auburndale's campus with Barnes's hand on his shoulder. This time, however, his touch is lighter and less insistent. 

"I know." Steve gazes past the barriers. "It almost looks like nothing happened." But he can still smell the scent of smoke in the air. 

"Clean up crew was here early." Barnes rubs Steve's shoulder when he heaves a sigh and he thumb strokes a careful line back and forth, twice, gentle. "You teach here, you said?" 

"Part time. My office is in Lippincott." Steve nods in the direction of the building and follows the path as far as he can with his eyes, then glances over his shoulder at Barnes. "You would've passed it if you followed my map." 

"I did. Your books and art supplies should be fine." Barnes follows Steve's gaze when he looks back towards the building. He's not in tactical gear today, but in a dark jacket and jeans, his hair pulled back into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck with a few strands tucked behind his ear. That fragile tension still edges his movements, even his speech, and there's a weariness around his eyes when he looks at Steve. "What made you come back? I know you were told not to." 

"I could ask you the same question. Don't the Avengers usually let somebody else do clean-up so they don't have to return?" Steve almost regrets the question, but at the sight of his school, an arts institute for God's sake, torn up by some clandestine battle, anger takes the place of worry inside him. 

Barnes lowers his head. "I always come back." 

"So, you're different from Stark?" Steve's voice sparks into anger again, then he sighs. It's no use getting angry at Barnes, not when he can channel the energy into whatever recovery groups he can join on campus. "Of course you are. You came back," he murmurs. 

They both stand at the edge of campus for a while, the late autumn wind scraping the last dry leaves around their ankles. The dust and smoke of yesterday have dissipated, but there's that faint, dry, acrid taste in the air, and Steve starts to grow sick of it after a few minutes.

"I walked across your campus again today. With the map," Barnes says. When the wind shifts around them, he reaches up to tuck his hair back behind his ear. "You'll be back in a couple weeks." 

"I guess I'm not teaching today," Steve says, and touches Barnes's arm. "Hey. Do you drink coffee?" 

Barnes turns to him with a smile. "Like a champ. Show me where you go for the best Brooklyn has to offer."

* 

"But _is_ it the best?" Barnes asks when he meets Steve outside the same small, quiet coffee shop a week later. "Or is it the most convenient?"

"Both. Well..." Steve tips his head to the side, yielding a little. "It's halfway between home and campus. The coffee's hot and strong and decent," he adds and holds the door for Barnes. "And you've been here twice with me and haven't complained, so." 

"Point. Thanks," Barnes says and stands behind Steve as they walk up to the counter. 

"Large, black, you'll add the cream," Steve says, just as Bucky's about to tell Steve his order. "I'll pay." 

The smile that crosses Barnes's face is brief, but pleased, and he touches the small of Steve's back as he orders and pays for them both. He finds them a table at the back of the coffee shop, by the window, and wraps his hands around his cup as Steve pulls off his pea coat and scarf. 

This is what Steve's already come to like about having coffee with Barnes: the easy way they fall into each other's space, the way Barnes will touch Steve on the shoulder or the small of his back, but won't crowd himself close, the way he'll read old fashioned detective novels while Steve sketches. The way he listens with interest and care as Steve talks about the work he's been doing at the library and art studios on campus, trying to salvage what they can from smoke and water damage. 

He _is_ different from what Steve expected, different from whatever anyone might expect from any of the Avengers. He's soft-spoken and there's a shyness behind his quiet intensity. He likes to talk about books and movies, about how some of the neighborhoods in New York have changed since his boyhood and how some haven't changed at all. 

"You never talk about your missions," Steve says, a week later, and fills in the shadows on the sketch of the street corner he's gazing out at. "You were gone all last week, though." 

Barnes nods when Steve glances at him. "Some of them I can't talk about. Some of them I'd rather not talk about." 

"But some of them?" Steve reaches across the small table to touch the back of Barnes's hand. 

They're both dressed in jeans and sweaters, but Barnes has his right sleeve rolled up a couple inches. His wrist is taped up and the fatigue shows in shadows beneath his eyes. 

He gives another nod and lowers his gaze. He looks, for a moment, impossibly young, and there's an unspoken longing in his tired eyes. "I wouldn't do that to you." 

"Okay, but... you don't have to carry that all inside you." Steve taps his index finger against the medical tape then draws a wandering pattern with his fingertip over the bandage. "What happened here?" 

"I landed wrong," Barnes admits. "I heal fast, though." 

"I bet it hurt for a while. Maybe a lot." Steve touches his wrist again and then just rests his palm over where the medical tape edges past the sleeve of the black pullover Barnes has on. 

"For a while, yeah. And a lot, for a little while. Yeah." Barnes holds Steve's gaze for a moment, then looks down at his coffee with a smile, but doesn't pick the cup up to drink until Steve goes back to sketching. 

"And you got home alright? Sat through a bunch of meetings and told everyone how you got your job done? Left as soon as it was over because, apparently, 'you really fucking hate meetings.'" Steve continues to shade in shadows, but can't help but look at Barnes again. "You... you got home alright, though?" 

Steve waits and then hears the quiet chuckle Barnes gives under his breath. 

"Well, I had something to come home to. That helped," he says and his foot nudges against Steve's under the table.

*

Until campus opens back up in December, most of Steve's days are spent on his own projects and his work at the library and community center. Between adjuncting, working part time at the community center, and some extra freelance work, he has enough to cover rent and bills without killing his immune system this winter.

Which, honestly, he's more than grateful for given how miserable he'd been when he was between jobs, and how he'd pushed himself through a bout of bronchitis just to make rent a couple winters ago. The apartment he has now isn't much bigger than the one he had as a graduate student, but it's warmer and safer, and he's pretty sure it doesn't look like a student lives there. He's filled it with books and art and all the mismatched furniture his mother had donated to him over the years before she passed away. 

There's a keen edge to the winter air as Steve walks across campus for the first time in December and a keen little ache inside him as he thinks of his mom. Five winters without her and he still feels a little lost, but he had more years than that with her and he holds every one of them close to his heart. 

Before he can settle into melancholy, the wind whips around him a little more strongly and Steve huddles down into his coat. For all that it aggravates his asthma, he loves the moody, grey December days in New York City. The taste of snow on the air, the cleanness and sharpness of the wind as it whistles through the buildings. Hanukkah starts in a couple days, and despite the two week closure, winter break starts a couple weeks after that. 

It doesn't hurt, too, that he has a few texts on his phone from Barnes when he gets up to his office. 

_Leaving again tomorrow. Are you busy? I'd like to see you, Steven._

_We don't need to get coffee._

_Please say you want coffee. I just got back last night and there is not enough coffee in the world to get me through another mission._

Steve reads and rereads the messages before he texts back. 

_Coffee, of course. I'll get you whatever you like. And then you can walk me home if you have time._

He knows he's taking a chance, but the time he's spent with Barnes, sitting quietly and reading or sketching, talking about the difference between their days and their pasts, their shared memories of growing up in New York City--all that time has come to mean so much to Steve. 

_I'll have time,_ Barnes texts back. _And I'll see you right after you're done teaching your second class today._

Steve tips his head back and closes his eyes, happiness and expectation and relief rushing through him. He's come to care for Barnes, for his shy smiles as much as for his strength. He thinks of the grey-blue of Barnes's eyes, the dark sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek when he glances aside, the fine line of his profile, and the even finer lines that Steve wants to badly to trace down his chest and over his arms. 

He's drawn Barnes a dozen times already, rough sketches of him gazing out the coffee shop window, a few of him in the full tac gear he wore the first time they talked, and more than a few of just his face or his hands. 

His hands. _God._ He seems almost self-conscious of the metal one in public, but Steve's seen how precise and delicate his touch is, has felt how strong and certain it is, too. 

It doesn't matter to Steve, he'll fold his hands around both of Barnes's, and hold them as long as the other man lets him.

*

The air is almost winter-cold as they walk from the coffee shop to Steve's apartment building and Steve huddles back against the wind. He's trying to figure out where Barnes is going next, but the wind keeps taking his breath away while he shows Barnes the way to his home.

"Budapest?" He guesses, though thus far every one of his guesses as to where Barnes is going tomorrow have been wrong. "No, I guessed that already... Prince Edward Island?" 

"Canada? Nope." Barnes laughs and touches the small of Steve's back when the wind threatens to catch in his chest again for the third or fourth time. 

"I'm fine," Steve says, coughing, and slows his steps so he can rest a hand against his chest. Frustrated, he tries to walk and breathe at the same time, tries to force his asthma into submission for just a few more minutes. 

"Sure, Rogers..." Barnes's hand stays at the small of his back, though, and slides up to rest between Steve's shoulder blades when he coughs a few more times. 

Even though he knows he shouldn't care anymore, and that the time when he'd been embarrassed of his asthma or his janky heart is now passed, Steve can't help but cringe inside as he pulls out his inhaler. 

As soon as he does, Barnes slows his steps and stops, lets Steve take a minute to take the hit from his inhaler and to make sure his breathing evens out. 

"I'm fine," Steve says again. He shrugs his hair out of his eyes and pockets his inhaler. 

"You do the same for me," Barnes says, in a low, soft voice. "You make sure I'm alright. Every time I come home. Let me do the same, Steve." 

A spark of defiance rises up in Steve when Barnes starts talking and settles into a warm glow at the center of Steve's chest as he finishes. He's never set any of his health issues out in detail for Barnes, though he's seen the inhaler now, and he's seen Steve in glasses instead of contacts a few times. He'll need to do that at some point, soon maybe, but for now Steve folds his hand inside Barnes's and tugs him along closer to Steve's building. 

He doesn't miss the quick smile that appears on Barnes's lips, though, and that makes the moment worth it for Steve. 

When they get to his place, Steve nudges Barnes along and takes the first step up to the building on his own, so that when he faces Barnes, he's a little taller than him. 

"When do you leave?" 

"Early. Before dawn, actually." He looks at Steve and reaches up to smooth down the lapels on Steve's peacoat. "Really fucking early..." 

"So, you're leaving in the middle of the night." Steve leans into the touch, moving in a little closer to Barnes. The night's crystal clear and cold, a perfect December night, and Steve wants nothing more than to kiss Barnes standing on the steps to his apartment building. 

He gets in the lightest, briefest brush of his lips against Barnes's before the quiet between them is broken by the sudden, harsh buzz of a phone message. 

Barnes curses under his breath and breaks away from Steve with apology and regret written all over his face. He pulls his phone from his coat pocket, curses again, and he rubs his forehead. 

"I'm sorry..." Barnes rubs at his forehead again and Steve can tell there's something wrong, something he won't be able to talk about with Steve. "I need to go. I'll have Wilson pick me up around the block, not at your house." 

"You're leaving _now?_ " Steve bites back his disappointment as best he can. "No, it's--I understand." 

Barnes nods, and then leans in to kiss Steve on the cheek. "We're picking up right where we leave off when I get back. Except maybe I'll be the one taking advantage of that height difference." 

"We'll see about that." Steve laughs through his disappointment and rests his head against Barnes's shoulder. "How much longer do I get you to myself?" 

"About two minutes." 

"Right." Steve raises his head and slides both his arms around Barnes's shoulders and makes those two minutes count.

*

Steve spends three days feeling as if the world is somehow off kilter. The air around him feels wrong and uncomfortable against his skin; at the edge of his senses a kind of desperate anxiety chases him through his days. If that mission goes wrong, if Barnes gets hurt, or worse, and Steve doesn't get a chance to kiss him again, to let Barnes know how much it means to Steve to be able to kiss him, to hold him close and safe--

Those thoughts feel like a maze that Steve cannot find his way through, like a cloud of smoke that he cannot breathe or fight his way out of. 

Three days later after Barnes leaves, Steve's phone rings as he aimlessly watches one of the crimes shows Barnes seems to enjoy criticizing as much as he does watching. He's about ready to doze off, an early morning and extra hours at the community center starting to take its toll, when the noise jars him awake. 

"Hey... you're home early?" 

"About ten hours early," Barnes says. He sounds relieved, but tired and hoarse. "Are you home? Can I get two more minutes with you?" 

"Yeah, I'm home. And of course, yeah... Are you--are you okay?" Steve's fumbling his shoes on as he talks, worry already tightening into a knot in his stomach as he hears more of the strain and fatigue in Barnes's voice. 

"Sure." His voice goes really low and rough there, and Steve is pretty sure he's leaving a lot of information out of their conversation. 

"Do you want me to come to you? I can come to you... Fuck, just, tell me what I need to do to get into the Avengers Tower--" 

"Steven... I'll get you clearance. Just meet me outside tonight, okay?" He sounds almost desperate this time, almost uncertain, as if Steve might actually say no. 

Steve nods, remembers Barnes can't see him, and gets out a _yeah, sure, of course_ as he clatters down the stairs from his apartment. That's one worry down, he supposes, though a hoard of others threaten to take over as he sits down on the cold steps and waits. Barnes could be hurt or sick, or both, or-- 

As soon as Steve hears a car, and then bootsteps ringing against the sidewalk he stands, and as soon a Barnes is in front him, he slides his arms around his waist and buries his face in the other men's chest. He smells like smoke and sweat and dust, and Steve doesn't care, not one fucking bit, not when he feels Barnes shiver against him.

"What happened?" Steve says, then holds Barnes a little more firmly when he shivers again. "You're _early_. You're never early, and you never call me..." 

"We got out early. And I think I owe you a kiss?" Barnes voice cracks on those last few words and he just looks so completely worn down, his voice a little thready as he pulls Steve back into the hug Steve tries to move out of. 

"You're hurt," Steve says. He doesn't have to ask; he already knows the strained look in Barnes's eyes, knows the tension in his jaw and the shadows under his eyes. "Come on. You can kiss me later. If you need a doctor--" 

"No," Barnes says voice suddenly sharp. He subsides against Steve a second later, though, even leans some of his weight against Steve. "No, I just... I needed to see you, Steve." 

"Okay, then you're coming inside, and you're letting me put you back together." Steve's already reaching for his bag, and he slides his free arm around Barnes as he starts the walk up the stairs to Steve's. 

The walk up the front steps is slow, and Barnes looks a little like he might pass out in the elevator up to Steve's floor. He never leans out of the arm that Steve has around his waist, though, and he never lets go of that tight control he has over his own movements. 

Not until he sits down on the edge of Steve's bed, after Steve's made sure he had a long hot shower and has exchanged his tac gear for a clean pair of boxer briefs. He's shivering a little bit again, from cold and exhaustion, and he tenses each time Steve's fingers brush against his bruised ribs. 

"That was supposed to be a metaphor, by the way, the whole putting you back together thing. Christ, Barnes..." 

"You don't... _fuck_ ," Barnes gasps when Steve fingers one of he bruises on his chest and then continues to wrap medical tape around his rib cage. 

"Sorry... I don't what?" Steve's fingers get clumsy as he unwinds the tape and he gets a better look at how beat up and bruised Barnes his. His back and chest are a mess, and he looks like every inch of him hurts. Whatever comfort Steve offers him--the hot shower, a mediocre job at tending his wounds, a night spent with Steve's body warm against his--seems ridiculously inadequate. 

Barnes shakes his head and holds his breath for a couple seconds and even closes his eyes against the pain. Suddenly, the pain, the fatigue, the three days without sleep and with a body too sore to even let him sleep if he had the chance look like they're too much for him. "You don't have to call me that..." 

"... I'm not actually sure I _can_ keep calling you by your last name when you're sitting on my bed, your ribcage taped together..." Steve's voice stutters, a little tear-choked and panicky, and he leans back in to stroke the edge of the bandages. "I did a really shitty job, I'm sorry... I just want to take care of you and I'm not sure I can. You're really hurt." 

"Hey, no, it's okay... I heal fast. You've already helped me so much." Barnes rests his own hand over Steve's and keeps it there, really still, so that both their hands rise and fall against his chest with the rhythm of his breath. "Bucky," he says, low and quiet, "my friends used to call me Bucky... When I was a kid, back before... well, everything." 

Steve squeezes his eyes shut against the anxiety that rises up inside him at how very hurt Bucky is and gives himself a shake. He'll get upset later, when he's alone, if he feels like he needs to work through the shock and anxiety that way, but now he's not going to let himself when he has Bucky here with him, hurt and exhausted and in need of so many different kinds of warmth. 

"Bucky?" He asks, tests the word against his lips and tongue. "Bucky..." 

"Stevie," Bucky says, and the teasing tone of his voice startles a laugh from Steve. 

"Oh my _god_ , that's a ridiculous name, and you're a ridiculous man, and you nearly had every single fucking bone in your body crushed out there, and I am so... so grateful that you're home, Bucky." Steve doesn't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth and doesn't stop the way he half-laughs, half-chokes back a sob as Bucky pulls him in closer. 

"I'm home," Bucky says. 

"You _knew_ that mission was going to go bad..." 

"I'm _home_ , and I'll always remember to come home to you," Bucky murmurs. His left hand still rests atop Steve's and he strokes his fingers, warm and steady, against the back of Steve's hand. 

"How much of a promise is that?" Steve takes a step closer, then another one, and takes Bucky's left hand in his own to kiss the palm. 

"The best one I can make." Bucky's fingers reach up touch Steve's face, and like his palm, the metal is skin-warm and smooth. A faint flush colors his cheeks when Steve turns to kiss his hand again and he glances aside, suddenly shy. 

"What does it feel like? Bucky," Steve murmurs, nuzzling right against Bucky's palm, and do so again in reply to the soft, pleased sigh he gets in return. 

"Warm... it feels warm." Bucky strokes Steve's cheek and the side of his neck, then reaches up to slide his fingers through Steve's hair. "I always wondered... what that would feel like, to have somebody this close..." 

Realization catches in Steve's chest as Bucky's voice trails off and it's all he can do not to press himself in as close as possible to Bucky, to feel the thrum of Bucky's heart against his own chest. There hadn't been anyone, after the war, after the cryo chamber, after the seventy years of sleep and cold. 

"But you're home, and I'll take care of you, I'll keep you warm, I'll promise you that, Buck." Steve leans further into the touch as Bucky's hand curls around his neck and slides his own arms around Bucky's shoulders. 

When Bucky looks up him, the light in his eyes is soft, fragile, and when he smiles, it looks as if he's being careful not to smile too much. Warmth floods Steve's senses, along with the inimitable desire to keep Bucky close to him, to shield him from the pain of his past and the every tragedy that time wreaked on him. 

"Stay tonight," Steve says. He leans in to rest his forehead against Bucky's so that he can feel the soft sigh of his breath and can measure his own breath against Bucky's. "Please stay." 

Bucky nods, brief and quick, and his lips brush over Steve's. That touch is brief and quick, too, but there's such warmth in his touch that Steve moves in closer until he's kissing Bucky. 

And kissing him, lips and breath and tongue, and until all his worry and all the yearning, all the desperation and love he'd kept close to his heart while Bucky was away spills out into the kisses. He kisses Bucky long and deep, feels warmth and desire threaten to swell in his chest, and keeps on kissing him even when he has to catch his breath. Short kisses against the corner of his mouth, then more careful ones as Bucky reaches up to cradle Steve's head in the palms of his hands. 

"Steve... oh god, Steven," Bucky gasps against Steve's mouth, his voice ragged and raw with need, and he lets out a shaky sigh as he puts a couple inches between his mouth and Steve's. "I waited so long for something like this. I feel like I've been waiting for you." 

"You don't need to wait anymore." Steve smiles into the quiet, murmuring kisses Bucky gives him next. 

"Can you get me some painkillers? I don't care what you have..." Bucky nuzzles a kiss against Steve's cheek, then one against the point of his shoulder before Steve can move away to hunt down the medicine. "Bring me whatever, then come get in bed with me, Steve." 

When Steve tries to get away, Bucky kisses his shoulder again, then relents and gives Steve a little nudge. Before he can go, though, Steve has to touch Bucky's face, stroke the edge of his jaw, run one fingertip over his collarbone. His hair's damp around his neck and he needs a shave; Steve marvels that he's close enough to tell, that he can run the back of his hand against Bucky's cheek and feel the scratch of his stubble against his skin.

"What?" Bucky looks down to watch Steve when he starts touching the edge of the medical tape again. "I told you, I'll heal fast..." 

"Yeah, I... I know. I just... wanted to make sure this was... I get to touch you now," Steve says and can't keep the wonder out of his voice. 

"All you want." Bucky tugs Steve down into another kiss, long and lingering, and then strokes Steve's side. "C'mon, get in bed, Steven." 

Steve nods and finally steps away. He finds the bottle of extra strength Tylenol he takes for his worst sinus headaches, pours Bucky a glass of orange-tangerine juice, and brings both back to his bedroom. 

"Juice?" Bucky raises an eyebrow, but accepts the glass. 

"Don't tell me you don't need the calories." Steve shakes four tablets out of the bottle, hands them over, and waits for Bucky to swallow them before he gets into bed next to him. 

"Sleep. I need sleep way more than anything else, but... thanks." He finishes the juice, clenches his jaw against the pain when he lies back against Steve's pillows, and smiles when Steve rests his hand on Bucky's chest. "I'll be alright." 

"I know; I'll make sure you are before you leave again." 

The last kiss Bucky gives Steve that night is a little cool and tart and sweet from the juice, and Steve touches the tip of his tongue to his own lips before he falls asleep tucked against Bucky's side.

*

Steve wakes up to warmth and soft, murmured breathing against his shoulder. He closes his eyes against both and wills himself to drift off again, even if it's only for a few more minutes of hazy, half-asleep awareness of the world around him. He'll find his way back to wakefulness soon enough and he knows Bucky will be the one to lead him there.

Bucky shifts against him after a couple minutes, makes a few soft sleepy sounds, and kisses Steve's shoulder, and then kisses him again when Steve makes a tiny, pleased sigh. Outside the cocoon of warmth in his bed there is the cold of the winter morning and the world at large waiting for them. A whole world, Steve thinks, and for now, his own world is made up ony of the warmth of Bucky's body pressed against his under the blankets and the quiet, murmured kisses Bucky presses to his shoulder. 

"Do you feel better?" Steve asks. "You slept for a long time." 

"Mhmm... you put me back together," Bucky replies. He kisses Steve's hair and wraps an arm around his waist. His body tenses, though, and he lets out the quietest, most held back groan as he relaxes again. 

"Still sore?" 

Bucky doesn't reply, but then, he doesn't really need to, not when he has his body wrapped up around Steve's so close that Steve can feel every tiny hitch in his breath, even sound of relief when he finds himself less stiff and sore than he might've expected. They stay spooned together for a while, doing more dozing than talking, until Steve turns in Bucky's arms. 

"Can I hold you before you go?" Steve touches Bucky's jaw, his neck, his chest, creaptes a map of all the places he wants to revisit later on in his sketchbook. 

Steve's favorite shy smile appears on Bucky's face and he looks away, then nods. He's hesitant, though, and he tenses up again as Steve curls against his side and starts to pet his stomach. His long hair is sleep-rumpled and he's still pale with fatigue, enough so that Steve reaches up to stroke his face, too. His thumb brushes against Bucky's mouth, and he strokes there, too, gentle and light. 

"I used to walk through the city after my missions," Bucky says after they sit up against the pillows and against each other. "I never wanted to go back to the Tower..." He shrugs in reply to the curious look Steve gives him. "It was easier to walk through all the old neighborhoods, watch the city unwind around me. Nothing ever felt like home, though." 

Tipping his head up, Steve brushes a kiss against Bucky's jaw and one against the side of his neck, where his skin is so warm that Steve can feel the low thrum of his heart. 

"You came here when you came home," Steve whispers. 

"Of course I did," Bucky says and kisses Steve, soft and slow and full of longing. He slides his hand down the length of Steve's body and measures the angle of his hip before pulling Steve in close. "Of course I did," he says again. "You drew me a map and I followed it home."

* * *

  
  
_"You drew me a map and I followed it home."_  
**maps** // [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/21j4zzff2sabqipcmd6oicfuy/playlist/7bwjVH6LgElVdy77abbkut?si=X4C2a-h9T5qPRigsDg9iKA)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please give the artist some love on tumblr, where [you can view and reblog a masterpost of their art & playlist](https://transbucky.tumblr.com/post/175535686012/hi-this-is-the-art-post-for-the-gorgeous). <3


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